the stump to stop the blood.”
“But a vulture smells the blood and comes swooping down at you.”
“So I use my right arm to pick up the left arm that I cut off, and I use it to bat the vulture away!”
“But…”
Joni trailed off. At first I figured I had her stumped. Then she leaned over, her eyelids closing. She smelled like bubblegum and bicycle grease. Before I knew it, her lips were coming near mine. I was so freaked out, I stood up. Since we were still under my bed, I crashed into the bottom of my mattress.
Her eyes opened quickly after that.
“What’d you do that for?” we both yelled at the same time.
“Don’t you like me?” Joni asked, clearly hurt.
“Yeah,” I said. “But, you know, I’m gay.”
“Oh. Cool. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
There was a pause, and then Joni continued.
“But the vulture pulls your left arm out of your hand and begins to hit you with it…”
At that moment I knew Joni and I were going to be friends for a good long time.
It was with Joni’s help that I became the first openly gay class president in the history of Ms Farquar’s third-grade class.
Joni was my campaign manager. She was the person who came up with my campaign slogan: VOTE FOR ME…I’M GAY!
I thought it rather oversimplified my stance on the issues (pro-recess, anti-gym), but Joni said it was sure to generate media attention. At first she wanted the slogan to be VOTE FOR ME…I’M A GAY, but I pointed out that this could easily be misread as VOTE FOR ME…I’M A GUY, which would certainly lose me votes. So the A was struck and the race began in earnest.
My biggest opponent was (I’m sorry to say) Ted Halpern. His first slogan was VOTE FOR ME…I’M NOT GAY, which only made him seem dull. Then he tried YOU CAN’T VOTE FOR HIM…HE’S GAY, which was pretty stupid, because nobody likes to be told who they can (or can’t) vote for. Finally, in the days leading up to the election, he resorted to DONT VOTE FOR THE FAG. Hello? Joni threatened to beat him up, but I knew he’d played right into our hands. When the election was held, he was left with the rather tiny lint-head vote, while I carried the girl vote, the open-minded guy vote, the third-grade closet-case vote and the Ted-hater vote. It was a total blowout, and when it was all over, Joni beat Ted up anyway.
The next day at lunch, Cody O’Brien traded me two Twinkies for a box of raisins – clearly an unequal trade. The next day, I gave him three Yodels for a Fig Newton.
This was my first flirtation.
Cody was my date for my fifth-grade semi-formal. Or at least he was supposed to be my date. Two days before the big shindig, we had a fight over a Nintendo cartridge he’d borrowed from me and lost. I know it’s a small thing to break up over, but really, the way he handled it (lying! deceit!) was symptomatic of bigger problems. Luckily, we parted on friendly terms, Joni was supposed to be my back-up date, but she surprised me by saying she was going with Ted. She swore to me he’d changed.
This was also symptomatic of bigger problems. But there was no way of knowing it then.
In sixth grade, Cody, Joni, a lesbian fourth grader named Laura and I formed our elementary school’s first gay-straight alliance. Quite honestly, we took one look around and figured the straight kids needed our help. For one thing, they were all wearing the same clothes. Also (and this was critical), they couldn’t dance to save their lives. Our semi-formal dance floor could have easily been mistaken for a coop of pre-Thanksgiving turkeys. This was not acceptable.
Luckily, our principal was cooperative and allowed us to play a minute or two of I Will Survive and Bizarre Love Triangle after the Pledge of Allegiance was read each morning. Membership in the gay-straight alliance soon surpassed that of the football team (which isn’t to say there wasn’t overlap). Ted refused to join, but he couldn’t stop Joni from signing them up for swing dance classes twice a week at recess.
Since I was unattached at the time, and since I was starting to feel that I had met everyone there was to meet at our elementary school, I would often sneak out with Laura to the AV room, where we’d watch Audrey Hepburn movies until the recess bell would ring and reality would beckon once more.
In eighth grade, I was tackled by two high school wrestlers after a late-night showing of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert at our local theatre. At first I thought it was a strange kind of foreplay, but then I realised that their grunts were actually insults – queer, faggot, the usual. I wasn’t about to take such verbal abuse from strangers – only Joni was allowed to speak to me that way. Luckily, I had gone to the movies with a bunch of my friends from the fencing team, so they just pulled out their foils and disarmed the lugheads. (One of them, I’ve since heard, is now a drag queen in Columbus, Ohio. I like to think I had something to do with that.)
I was learning that notoriety came with a certain backlash. I had to be careful. I had a gay food column in the local paper – “Dining OUT” – which was a modest success. I’d declined numerous pleas to run for student council president, because I knew it would interfere with my direction of the school musical (I won’t bore you with the details, but let me just say that Cody O’Brien was an Auntie Mame for the ages).
All in all, life through junior high was pretty fun. I didn’t really have a life that was so much out of the ordinary. The usual series of crushes, confusions and intensities.
Then I meet Noah and things become complicated. I sense it immediately, driving home from Zeke’s gig. I suddenly feel more complicated.
Not bad complicated.
Just complicated.
The Homecoming Queen’s Dilemma
I look for him in the hallways on Monday. I hope that he’s looking for me, too.
Joni promises me she’ll be my search-party spy. I’m afraid she’ll get too carried away with the job, dragging Noah over to me by the ear if she finds him.
But the connection isn’t made. No matter how far I drift from the hallway conversations I’m having, I never drift into him. The halls are awash in Homecoming Pride posters and post-weekend gossip. Everybody is jingling and jangling; I look for Noah like I’d look for a pocket of calm.
Instead I run into Infinite Darlene. Or, more accurately, she runs on over to me. There are few sights grander at eight in the morning than a six-foot-four football player scuttling through the halls in high heels, a red shock wig and more-than-passable make-up. If I wasn’t so used to it, I might be taken aback.
“Ah’m so glad I caught you,” Infinite Darlene exclaims, sounding like Scarlett O’Hara as played by Clark Gable. “Things are such a mess!”
I
